


Hold Back the River (Let Me Look in Your Eyes)

by Irish_coffee



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Alternative Ending to season 4, Awkward Hug, Freestyle, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 16:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11650242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irish_coffee/pseuds/Irish_coffee
Summary: “Am I your teddy bear now?”He tried to sound offended,he really did.But he too, was exhausted.When you're called Nikola Tesla, dealing with your best friend's tears is just awkward. Turns out that when you're called Helen Magnus, you get used to it... After like... A century or two.





	Hold Back the River (Let Me Look in Your Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there. Okay... First... Sorry for this. I don't even know what I'm writing anymore. This came out of NOWHERE as I was writing something else (Wisdom, if you absolutely want to know, although it has nothing to do with it and cannot possibly be read as part of the same universe). 
> 
> The title comes from James Bay's song, although I actually listened to Death Cab for Cuties - I Will Follow You into the Dark while writing this. I know -- WHY?. I don't know. But then I checked Hold Back the River and it actually suits Nikola and Helen well enough ^^". So why not? 
> 
> This was typed very fast and I'm not sure it should he out here yet, haha.

She was where he knew he would find her.

She had always loved the height.

Back in Oxford, he had often found her on top of Christ Church,

surveying the comings and goings of the students in the middle of the night,

deep in thoughts.

 

He had almost killed himself the first time she had materialized out of nowhere while he was feeding pigeons there.

His foot had slipped and,

had she been endowed with less reflexes,

Nikola Tesla would have fallen to his death,

never having been introduced to Helen Magnus.

 

She was dead.

Officially, that is.

From what he could see, it turned out she was very much alive.

Battered and bruised but alive.

He was, he had to admit, a bit jealous of her exit.

A tad too dramatic, granted, but so much better than dying of old age in one's hotel room.

He stayed a few steps behind her for a while, taking in the sight.

The golden light of the sunset was giving an ethereal halo to her dark silhouette.

She was holding herself, shaking against the last rays of the sun.

Her long brown curls gave her some Medusa-like quality as they fluttered in the wind.

 

She could feel his presence, he knew, and he was waiting for a sign.  
  
A sign she didn't mind him coming closer.  
  
His heart leaped when she turned her head, chin touching her collar bone.  
  
That was his sign.  
  
But he took a small eternity to commit her profile to his memory,

the shadows caught in the hollow of her cheek,

the soft crease of her nose,

to be conjured up someday,

as he looked for the meaning of it all. 

 

“I'm sorry for the Big Guy. You couldn't have found a better housemate.”

The best he could come up with for a grieving friend, she knew.  
So she smiled, nodding lightly but still avoiding his gaze.

 

She breathed deeply, not enough to avoid a sob.

And she brought her hand to her mouth.

Overcome once again with her crushing sadness.

“Oh please don't cry. You'll ruin your makeup.”

She was not wearing any.

Not that it mattered.

“And I've never known how I should react.”

If he was going to be honest,

it was the perfect time.

 

She was beautiful when she smiled,

and flirting was an appropriate way of telling her.  
  
She was also beautiful when she cried,

but that was socially challenging to share such a view.

 

She turned to face him,

her teary eyes riveting.  
  
“Hold me?”  
  
She begged, exhausted,

her voice almost a whisper.  
  
“Am I your teddy bear now?”

He tried to sound offended,

he really did.  
  
But he too, was exhausted.

And she snaked her arms around his waist,

gluing her cheek against his heart.

Which, of course, left him with no other choice than to gather her against him,

small bird with broken wings.

She cried silently, her face buried in his vest.

He felt awkward.  
  
He wasn't used to cuddling, he didn't master the art.

She felt comforted,

and that's all that mattered.  
  
“I had you laid to rest with your mother.”

He said.  
  
Such a long moment had passed that he thought she was asleep.  
  
“Where did you find a body?”  
  
She wondered, playing with a button of his shirt.  
  
“Who's the guy who's been squatting my grave since 1943?”  
  
He returned.  
  
Frankly, who cared?

He felt her nod against his chin,

and he felt like kissing her hair.

So he did.  
  
Because who cared?

“Thank you.”

Those two words were larger than they seemed.

They comprised a heartful of reasons why she was grateful.  
  
He chose not to study those reasons.  
  
He didn't need to.  
  
“What's a little burial between friends?”

She muffled a laugh against his collar.  
  
Words were superfluous.  
  
She held him impossibly tighter as the sun sank into the ocean.

 


End file.
